


Game Winning Goal

by dangercupcake, Superstition_hockey



Series: Depth on the Bench [2]
Category: Superstition by Superstition_hockey
Genre: Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Hockey, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Quebec Nordiques, Rookie/Vet, Self-Exploration, Team as Family, bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 04:12:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/pseuds/dangercupcake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: This is a fanfic of the Superstition series by Superstition_hockey, specifically about Bianchi and Jimmy in "Breakaway" and "Bees?"Basically: two guys coming together to play hockey together and fall in love.





	Game Winning Goal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Superstition_hockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bees?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9401519) by [Superstition_hockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey). 



> working title: _i want you to miss me when i'm not around you.docx_ Thanks, Carly Rae Jepsen.

Fuck the fucking Islanders and everything they stand for. Which is nothing because they’re just a fucking hockey team. Which Joey keeps reminding himself. It was big news that he was a hometown Brooklyn boy drafted to the Islanders, but they were just a shitty Long Island team originally -- his sister keeps reminding him -- so who fucking needs them now that he’s a Quebec Nordique.

And the Nordiques _picked him_ , he tells himself. They actually did want him. And they probably aren’t going to throw him away after just a year. So he -- well, first he lets the Nordiques know he wants to change his number. Then he spends part of his summer in Brooklyn with Mom and Grandma and Louisa, and then he goes to Vail to train with some of his buddies from the draft and some of their buddies -- they end up a couple of years up and down the draft class, it’s nice. They get a lot of work in but they also play hard, and Joey gets his dick sucked a lot. The guys talk a lot of shit about all the chicks they pull but they still all cheerfully trade handies when they’re home playing chel and getting drunk.

And Joey . . . like . . . he cares, or whatever, don’t get him wrong, but it’s just a mouth around his dick, so sometimes, if he pulls a cute looking dude . . . that just _happens_. It’s Vail. There are hot athletes who want to get down everywhere -- you can always tell an athlete because of the thighs under your hands when you’re sucking a dick, and Joey sucks a couple of dicks, gets his fingers into a few sloppy pussys, and just tries to go with the flow and not stress out about what’s going to happen when he gets to Q-City.

Like, he speaks enough Italian to talk to his Nona? But that is not French? And they don’t even speak real French in Canada? He has no idea what he’s going to do.

He downloads Duolingo on the plane to YQB, and immediately forgets about it because he knew the captain of the Nordiques was gonna be Luc Chantal, that motherfucker from the Sharks who went on that crazy point streak last season, but he did _not_ know that Chantal was _married to Jackson from the Flyers_.

That is so gay. Holy shit.

*

Joey can already tell who the core of the team is going to be, and he wants to be part of it. He’s a solid fucking D-man, and he knows he’d have a good plus/minus if the fucking Islanders hadn’t picked his rookie year tank. He can be a leader. He can be top line. He’s willing to put the time in and build something here with Chantal.

He says that after a pickup practice one day, to Chantal himself, and Chants doesn’t laugh at him. Chants puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Bianchi, that is all I fucking want from you. Be a leader, play the game. Let’s all be beauties on this team, eh?”

Joey has no idea what that means, it’s just garbled hockey talk, but he nods. “We’re a beauty team, Chants, I know we can be.”

“Good talk,” says Chants, punches him on the arm, and jogs away to where Jackson and a dog are waiting for him in a giant truck.

“What a weirdo,” Joey mouths to himself. But, okay, break it down. Play the game: Joey can do that. Be a beauty: Joey can do that. Be a leader: Joey can do that. Joey’s got this.

The only problem is that he doesn’t have a D-partner yet. There are some guys floating around -- two first-year rookies who have already called each other and seem to be clinging to each other for dear life; Holly and his cranky D-partner Richie, an old Frenchie; the only other guy is headed straight for the AHL, Joey’s pretty sure, judging from the way they drill together. There are three more D still coming in -- Joey came early, because Holly texted and said people were gathering early. Not a big deal to train in Quebec instead of Vail, right?

Seems like it’s a big deal to Chants. Joey kind of likes that he’s getting off on the right foot with the new captain. He’s never been a brown-noser, but this team is gonna be scrappy, they’re gonna need all the help they can get.

(Okay, that’s what his mom told him, and he listens to his mom still, fight him.)

*

Be a leader.

Joey looks at the list of other D-men who were drafted.

Gustavsson from the Canucks, Evangelista from Boston College, and Jimmy Aboulker from the Panthers. Joey knows Aboulker. A vet, usually partnered with Ekblad, they were a fucking dynamite pair, Joey can’t believe they didn’t protect Aboulker. Jesus. Joey’s _fought_ him. Hockeyfights.com says Joey won two of the six fights they’ve had, but that can’t be right. Joey watches them a couple of times over to see. He definitely won at least three of them.

Okay. Be a leader. Joey texts Filip and asks him to ask someone in the GTA for Ekblad’s number. It helps that almost everyone from the first round of Joey’s draft class is from fucking Toronto, although at the time it had felt like a fucking Hockey Canada conspiracy, and -- he remembers, laughing to himself -- Cartier kept trying to explain Canadian geography to him during the combine because he was from fucking Hull or something, which wasn’t even in Ottawa, much less the GTA.

Carts would be so happy Joey remembers.

It’s super easy to get Ekblad’s number and from there to get Aboulker’s number, and from there just take a breath and text: Hey this is Bianchi #27 on the Diques, a bunch of us are here already trying to get this team ready for the season, you should come out to the Q and hook up with us man.

It takes almost two hours but he finally gets a response while he’s eating his third chicken breast and watching _Last Week Tonight_ : Good timing. I’m already talking to Chantal about coming in. I’ll be there next week. I take it you need a d partner.

Joey blushes at his phone and types, “I’m not clicking with anyone so far thought maybe we fought enough we know each others moves”

Aboulker writes him back immediately: I think they want me with a rookie but we’ll see when I get in. Fill me in on what I need to know?

me: First off, Chantal is married to a dude.

Aboulker: Everyone knows that.

me: I didnt and it was embarrassing that I was fucking surprised. I can’t believe none of my asshole friends told me if everyone knows.

Aboulker: Fill me in on the real stuff.

Joey settles into the couch and starts typing about the problems they’re having with the front office finding a coach and how Daniyar Petin was supposed to be their savior goalie, but he has a serious drinking problem -- serious enough that they’re not even sending him to the A, they’re trying to figure out if they can talk him into an inpatient program.

Before Joey even realizes, they’ve been texting for hours, he missed his last before-bedtime meal, and it’s dark in the living room because the sun went down and Joey hadn’t noticed.

Yeah, he thinks. Aboulker is gonna be his D-partner.

*

It turns out Jimmy needs a week because he’s flying in from actual _France_. Joey has a split second of checking him out in the airport -- really nice, smooth brown skin, _really_ nice ass -- before his fucking brain kicks in and he realizes _That’s #8._

“Hey, man!” Joey holds out his hand for a handshake, and Jimmy pulls him in for a bro-hug and claps him on the shoulder.

“Hey, hi. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“No problem, man.” Joey picks up the guy’s bag from where he’d dropped it. “This all you have? The rest getting sent?”

“Yeah, I just shipped everything. So much easier.” He yawns. “Sorry. I slept on the flight but I’m so beat. Fucking international travel.”

“Well, come with me, you can have the bed and I’ll take the couch until we get you a place.”

Jimmy follows him toward the car. “Seriously, Joey, I can get a hotel.”

“Seriously, Jimmy.” Joey drops the bag into the trunk of his car. “Look, do you really _want_ a hotel? If you do, we’ll find one. But if you’re just being . . . like . . . weird? Then forget it. Come to my place. I got a fold out couch for my sister for when she visits, and it’s comfortable enough for a few days.”

Joey is annoyed at himself for being disproportionately pleased that Jimmy grins and says he’ll stay with Joey.

*

Joey is annoyed at himself for being disproportionately pleased when they get out on the ice the next day and he can practically hear the click as they start the drills. Everything falls into place. And finally Joey feels like he can relax a little, like maybe this fucking team is not going to be a complete wreck. At least one D-pair will be able to function, and if they need to play thirty minutes a night, that’s not going to be a problem -- Joey has young legs and Jimmy has more core strength than anyone else on their team except maybe Chants.

“I wanna talk to the trainers about upping my PB,” Joey says in the car on the way home. Jimmy’s texting -- Jimmy is always texting -- but Joey knows he’s probably still listening.

“Mmm,” says Jimmy.

“I think we’re gonna be the D-pair they lean on,” Joey says.

“Mmm,” says Jimmy.

“If we are, we need to be able to skate thirty, thirty-six minutes a night. I can’t do that right now. If I lift more --”

“More cardio,” says Jimmy, in the same tone he’d been saying “Mmm”.

“More leg days,” sighs Joey.

“Your legs are fine, you need more cardio, get your lungs going. Trust me. If you’re going to talk to the trainers about anything, talk to them about that.” Jimmy finally looks up from his phone. Joey glances over at him and finds him staring. “You’ll need a lot more protein and carbs, they’ll have to redo your whole diet. Cardio is slimming.”

“Gotta keep my girlish figure,” says Joey. “God, fuck this fucking traffic! This city, it’s like driving in Manhattan!”

“Why would you ever drive in Manhattan?”

“Because I hate myself and agreed to drive my mother in.” Joey rolls his head around and cracks his neck. “Okay, so I’m gonna do this. Fuck. I just got used to cooking this stupid diet and now I’m gonna have a new one.”

“I’ll help, don’t worry.”

When Joey glances at him again, Jimmy’s smiling down at his phone. Must be a cute meme text or something.

*

They’re finally gearing up to the pre-season, Joey fucking dedicated to the new training and the new diet, but they still don’t have a coach. Oh, people come and go, but it’s pretty clear that none of them are ever gonna stay.

“How can you tell?” Joey asks Jimmy, frowning. “I liked Letang. _And_ he was French, so don’t say not French again.”

“Letang isn’t head coach material yet, and he’s never going to leave Pittsburgh anyway. He was just here to fool around.”

“How do you know all these politics? Jesus.”

“I keep my ears open, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid.” Joey punches Jimmy in the arm.

“Sorry. I keep my ears open, kiddo.”

“Oh my god.” They start a foot race, Joey catching up almost easily, his new training kicking in nicely. Joey boards Jimmy and gives him a facewash, but it’s clear Jimmy is letting him, not fighting back, just laughing.

And the next day, they have Caroline Ouellette; Joey has no idea who she is but Chants is fucking impressed as all hell by her and tells everyone she’s won the Olympic gold six times, and the lady cup five times, and she’ll be their coach if they just behave themselves.

Joey elbows Jimmy and Jimmy nods. They drop back with the rest of the D-core as they file out onto the ice. “We’re in, boys,” Joey says.

“Same,” says Pendowski.

“Me, too,” says Evangelista.

The other guys nod, Richie looking the most serious of all of them. Figures -- he’s the Frenchest on their team, the most oldest Canadian French guy. Even Chants isn’t as French as Richie.

When Ouellette says, “All right, boys, gather around, we’re gonna talk about the drills we’re gonna run today,” they make sure she doesn’t even have to blow her whistle. The whole D-core drops. Chants drops. Everyone’s on one knee, looking up at her.

Their GM and the two owners come down to watch about halfway through, so at the end, Joey makes sure he’s one of the first guys off the ice. He’s right behind Giroux.

“Thanks, Coach,” G says as he skates by her to get to the gate, bumps his fist against hers.

“Thanks, Coach,” Joey says, and bumps her fist, too.

Behind him he hears Jimmy say, “Good practice, Coach.”

They tromp to the dressing room together, Joey’s heart in his throat.

“That _was_ a good practice,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” says Jimmy. He ducks his head and beads of sweat flick onto Joey. “I do like that she speaks French. I know that’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. You like it because you speak French, not because of stupid Quebec politics.”

“I speak English, too. It’s just sometimes . . . I don’t know, I can’t explain it.”

“Well I don’t fucking know,” says Joey. He knocks their foreheads together gently. “Maybe sometimes it’s just nice to hear someone says something in the language that you speak. That’s why my nona taught me Italian.”

“That’s kind of it.” Jimmy bumps him back. He’s a fucking sweat monster, but Joey doesn’t mind. “Do you wanna bike with me or just shower?”

“I hate the bike. I wanna run.”

“I hate running. I’m going to bike.”

“Freak.”

*

Perron is the one, though, who calls Joey into his office the day before their first regular season game. Joey hasn’t had to have any special one-on-ones with the coaches. He’s been doing good, sticking to his training schedules -- even sticking to his macros, thanks, Chants -- and he knows he’s not getting an A this year, but he _is_ doing what Chants said, and trying to be a leader in the room. And outside it. Just.

It’s fucking embarrassing, but, yeah, just trying to be a beauty, what’s wrong with that?

So his stomach’s in knots, because is he getting traded _again_? Or what?

“Thanks for coming, Joey. You want a cup of coffee?”

Joey shakes his head. “Only get one cup a day,” he says. “I save it for mornings.”

“No cheat days?”

Joey makes a face. “I took one cheat day and felt like shit. Chants is right when he says it’s better to stick to the diet all the time and just take a little extra when you need it, than have a lot extra on one day.”

“That’s definitely different from how we did it in my day but if it works for you . . .” Perron stretches out. “Listen, Joey . . . I wanted to make sure you know . . . You and Jimmy are doing great work together, and we’ve all noticed. You’re a great D-pair.”

“O . . . kay.”

“I mean it. Caro and I talk about it a lot. You’re our top D-pair right now, but I want to make sure -- neither of us know how it worked on the Islanders, but we’ve watched some tape. We want to make sure you know that having two puck-movers on the same line might not be what we ultimately end up wanting.”

Joey lets out a long breath. “I think it is,” he says. “I think it is what this team wants. You saw how we played in the pre-season. We’re fast and we go hard on the offense. We’re not a defensive team. We don’t play a defensive game.”

“No, we don’t,” agrees Perron. “But hockey evolves, teams evolve, and identities evolve. Twenty years ago, everyone played a possession game; ten years ago, the Cup-winning teams all play offensive games and then slowly there was a big shift backward as the young guns got old. Now we’re playing fast, offensive games again.”

“The Islanders weren’t,” Joey dares.

“No, and that’s why they weren’t in the Cup finals last year.”

Burn. “I’m not saying they were playing the right way. But this team got built to play a really specific way, and if you’re not going to use us for that way, what’s the point of even having Luc Chantal here?”

Perron sighs. “Look, Bianchi, all the D-pairings are getting this talk, okay? Not just you. We’re not singling you out. But we want you to be more prepared to switch things up. It’s not your personal fault that this happened. We as your coaches let you down -- we didn’t switch you up enough during practice or preseason. We didn’t let you know this with enough time before the season to get used to it. But we’re telling you now. Sometimes we have to play a different game.”

“I don’t think we should.”

“It’s not about what you think. Just say, Yes sir, and then send Jimmy in.”

Joey scowls. “Yes, sir.”

*

He texts Joey at red lights on his way home.

 _I cant believe he thinks we dont know how to play with other D_.  
_This is such bullshit._  
_Theres nothing wrong with 2 puck players on D, look at Subban and Josi and they were like the best ever_  
_That was a terrible conversation I am so annoyed he even criticized my cheat days_

He gets a text back from Jimmy: Stop texting and driving, kiddo

He fumes at the next red light because now he can’t even text back to tell Jimmy to not call him kiddo. Jesus.

That was such an annoying, stupid, condescending conversation. Joey’s not a rookie anymore. He knows they switch up D-pairs sometimes! The only reason anyone would have to have that conversation with him is if they thought . . . like . . . what if they thought he was attached to Jimmy.

Like. _Attached_.

Like so attached they _had_ to be split up for the good of the team because it was _weird_.

And there’s no one who Joey can even text about this because after him and Jimmy, the most veteran D on the team are Richie and Holly and if Joey texts Holly, Holly will take it to the captain, no question. Holly is right there in Chants’s inner circle.

No one can help him!

Fuck. Jesus.

He’s gonna have to ask his sister.

Except she will never stop laughing if he tells her he might be inappropriately attached to another dude. She will laugh at him until she dies. He can’t handle that, she already laughs at him for never having been in a real relationship and wearing spandex on TV.

His phone buzzes with texts but he ignores them, choosing to sit on the floor and watch the sun go down as his butt gets numb. The half of his brain that isn’t worried about fucking up the team dynamics is wondering about why, if his hockey ass is so huge that it doesn’t fit into regular jeans, can’t his hockey ass stay un-numb for a longer period of time than a regular person’s ass on the floor.

“Hey, kid,” says Jimmy. He shuts the door behind himself and kicks off his sneakers, slides across the wooden floor to Joey in socks that have a hole in one toe. Joey’s mother would never allow that. Joey should give him a new pair before he leaves.

“That was really humiliating,” Joey says.

Jimmy sits down next to him and puts an arm around him.

“Perron talked to me like I was an eighteen year old rookie who didn’t understand how a hockey team worked.”

“He’s really worried,” says Jimmy. “I’m guessing Chants gave him an earful about teamwork at some point. Or G. You didn’t go out with us the night G got too drunk and gave a speech about what it means to be on a team and think of men as brothers when it’s really just a business and nobody cares about you.”

“No, it was just Frenchies that night.”

“I object to being grouped with the Canadians,” says Jimmy, but he’s smiling. He tugs Joey a little closer.

“No one would ever think you’re Canadian. You’re not polite at all,” says Joey, punching him in the thigh. But he lets himself be dragged, until his head is in Jimmy’s neck.

“If you don’t listen to the words and just hear what he’s saying, it’s like . . . Coach and Perron are worried that they let us get too attached as D-pairings. All of us. So we won’t be able to pair anyone else, or it won’t be as good. Which isn’t ridiculous, Joe, because that’s how D-pairs work. Think back to a pair like Letang and Maatta. When one was injured the other didn’t play as well, because he had to play with someone else.”

“Hockey history lesson with Professor Aboulker.”

“I’m older than you so I know more history.” Jimmy noogies him a little.

“What are you, like two years older than me? Come on.”

“I’m five years older than you, shrimp.”

“That is the worst lie you’ve ever told.” Joey pulls back just to knock into him and accidentally rubs his lips over Jimmy’s collarbone. His skin is warm and soft and Joey wants to do it again, on purpose this time.

Shit.

He’s so attached.

Jimmy doesn’t even seem to notice, he just squeezes Joey’s shoulders and sits with him on the floor until it’s completely dark in the room and it’s time to eat more protein.

*

After all that, Joey never hits the ice without Jimmy anyway. He never skates less than 26 minutes a night and he has four points in the first ten games, all assists -- on the Isles, all season last season, he had eight points total, so he’s halfway to breaking his own personal NHL best already. With Jimmy on the other side of the ice, Joey feels like he can do anything, even the nights they take home an L.

He does get yet another card from Daniel from PR with “Suggested Phrases” on it for him to use when talking to media. Apparently “Tabarnak d’pucks” is not actually how you say “pucks in the net” in French, _thanks, Richie._

*

The nights Jimmy doesn’t go back to his own apartment are Joey’s favorite nights. There have been four, and yes, Joey knows he’s pathetic for counting them, but they are genuinely Joey’s favorite nights, and there have been more of them than nights Joey’s gotten laid since moving to Q-City. They unfold the couch, order in from the fake weird French-Italian place that is just proteins on top of proteins on top of carbs with gravy, eat until their muscles stop shaking, and then fall asleep watching truly terrible reality TV under the guise of teaching Joey Québecois. They always fall asleep.

Well -- Jimmy falls asleep. Joey pretends to fall asleep so he doesn’t have to move to his own bed. The first time he really did fall asleep and Jimmy didn’t wake him up _or_ leave him there and go sleep in Joey’s bed himself, and when they woke up they were cuddled together. Which is totally a hockey bro thing, Joey tells himself, because he can’t count the number of times he’s woken up in a pile of his bros. That’s true, it’s not even a lie. And Jimmy likes the back of the plane while Joey likes the front, so Latte has fallen asleep on him more than once at this point, which is normal.

It’s all normal.

Plus the stuff rookies get up to. When Joey was a rookie -- a real rookie, his first year in the show coming out of NCAA, not this middle ground of “kind of a rookie because you’re still too young to buy a beer” -- he gave his share of handjobs to his pals on the nights when they were too drunk to pick up or too tired to go out. And . . . there’s Vail. And . . . there’s the NCAA, not a big deal, everything is no homo gay in college.

Maybe everything is no homo gay in the big show, too. His _captain_ is _married_ to a dude. That’s the most gay it gets, but Chants is the biggest bro Joey’s ever met.

It’s pretty confusing.

It’s the most confusing when Joey wakes up and Jimmy is curled around him, holding him tight, steady breathing behind him, and Joey is _so happy_ in this _one moment_. He lets out a long breath and relaxes into the bed. He’s been drooling on the pillow, gross. He shuts his eyes for a couple more minutes, feeling this. He’s never woken up in someone’s arms before, not like this. At the bottom of a pile: yes. Being held: no.

The first time, Joey made himself get out of the bed after a few minutes -- put the coffee on, take a shower, make eggs, cut up fruit for them to have on oatmeal. Jimmy taught him how to make oatmeal in a fucking rice cooker, so now Joey isn’t burning the bottom of pots, and oatmeal doesn’t taste like shit. Pretty fucking amazing.

The thing is, after the first time, Joey gets selfish, and stays in bed. Stays in Jimmy’s arms. Keeps his eyes shut and doesn’t think, like, “Bro, this goes past rookie bullshit.” It’s definitely still kind of rookie bullshit as long as Joey is still kind of a rookie. Jimmy calls him _kiddo_ ; nothing is happening here that’s not totally normal.

The fifth time, after a fucking awful loss, dry team chicken and Chants being . . . well, Chants . . . Joey doesn’t even wait. He cleans up after dinner, takes off his shirt, climbs into the sofa bed, and curls around Jimmy’s waist. Jimmy’s still sitting up, leaning against a stack of pillows, flicking through TV channels too fast to be looking at any of them. Joey puts his head on Jimmy’s obliques and sighs.

“Okay, there, kiddo?” asks Jimmy.

“Oh, vaffanculo.”

“Such words from a nice Italian boy! What would your mama say!” Jimmy’s hand comes up and starts rubbing Joey’s neck, though, so Joey knows this is okay. He’d been right -- this is totally normal.

“She’d be happy I’m at least using my Italian. She wishes I played soccer.” Joey laughs a little. “She still can’t believe I play hockey.”

“Is she proud of you?” Jimmy scratches his fingers through the curls at Joey’s neck and it makes Joey shiver.

“Of course. Just not thrilled, you know. That I fight for a living.”

Jimmy shakes him by the neck. “Come on.”

“I know, but it’s what she thinks.”

“You could fight less than you do now. Leave more of it to Richie and Holly.”

It’s Joey’s turn to say, “Come on. I do what I have to do on the ice. You know that.”

“I know, but you’re not on the team to be a goon. You’re not even that good at it.”

“Beat you more than once.”

“Barely,” says Jimmy drily.

“Oh, shut up your face.” Joey flips so that he’s facing away from the television, his face pressed into Jimmy’s stomach, curled into the smallest ball a 6’6”, 240lb hockey player can possibly make himself.

Jimmy just keeps stroking his hair, and when he settles on a TV show, it’s in English.

*

Joey wakes up slowly, warm and content, feet hanging off the edge of the sofa bed, but that doesn’t bother him too much. Jimmy’s sleeping practically on top of him, all his wild black curls everywhere in Joey’s face. No, not sleeping, because his fingers are gently rubbing back and forth over Joey’s ribs.

Jimmy sighs. “Quel con, va te faire foutre, James,” he says softly, and pushes himself up. Their eyes meet.

“Good morning,” Joey says. This is so awkward and Jimmy looks so sad. “You want first shower? I’ll make eggs.”

“Yeah. Sure. Yes. That’ll be great.”

Joey reaches out and squeezes Jimmy’s arm. “Cheer up, bro. We start an awful road trip today and Chants is gonna be the most extra.”

“Is that supposed to cheer me up?”

“I think we’re all supposed to go out with him and try to get him laid,” Joey says. “That could be fun?” He makes a jerk-off motion. He can’t stop making this worse and making Jimmy look sadder for some reason. “Montreal chicks are supposed to be hot?”

“Okay, kid,” says Jimmy, sliding off the bed. “I’m going back to my place. I’ll see you on the plane.”

“You don’t want to drive in together?”

“I still need to pack.”

Joey blinks at this, because he knows Jimmy is always packed in advance, like a real fucking adult. He’s not like Joey, who has to throw everything together the night before or the morning of -- whose suits are always a little rumpled, whose ties never quite look right. Jimmy is _fashionable_.

As Jimmy is toeing into his shoes, Joey puts two and two together: Jimmy is trying to get away from him. Like. Right now: Jimmy does not want to be near him.

“Okay, man,” Joey says. His throat hurts but he forces the words out. “I’ll see you at the plane.”

Jimmy waves as he shuts the door.

Joey lets himself slowly fall over until he’s lying down again, and grabs a pillow to hold.

Logically he knows everyone can’t get along all the time. And sometimes Jimmy is a real shithead. Like, Joey would actually like to punch Jimmy in the face every time he calls Joey kid _for real_. But this . . . feels different. Did they just have a fight without talking or what?

Joey touches his ribs where Jimmy had been touching him.

They’re road roommates and Joey regrets that for the first time.

*

They lose in Montreal, and Joey just wants to lie down and not get up again. After the game he goes right back to the hotel, eats room service chicken, and goes to bed. He puts his earbuds in instead of turning on the TV, leaves the lights off. That way he won’t bother Jimmy.

He knows the loss isn’t _their_ fault, but they were off their game all night. If nothing else, they didn’t protect the goal, they didn’t protect their goalie, and the Habs took full advantage of that all night. If nothing else, he and Jimmy just couldn’t get it together enough to even block the fucking shots and even though Joey doesn’t _feel_ a real rivalry with the Habs, he knows the fans do. He knows everyone is disappointed. And he knows they all blame Ten, especially because they lost in a shootout and that’s always so bad for a goalie.

Joey turns up the volume on a random classic rock playlist that Spotify generates for him, and keeps his head under the covers. He doesn’t fall asleep for a while, but no one comes into the room. No one bothers him. No one crawls into bed with him, curls up around him, puts their face into his hair, murmurs French to themselves, rubs his bare skin with their soft hands.

Shit.

It’s just rookie bullshit but that one time it felt like so much more.

*

In the morning, Joey gets out of the shower just as Jimmy is letting himself into the room. He looks exhausted and rumpled.

“I crashed with Holly last night,” Jimmy says shortly, his French accent more pronounced than usual, the way it gets only when he’s overtired or really angry.

“I didn’t ask,” replies Joey, pulling on a shirt. “You can sleep wherever you want.”

“I thought you needed some space.”

“It sounds like _you_ needed some space.” Track pants. Socks. Slides. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Kid. Joey.”

“It’s okay if you needed space. I’m sure having around a dumb kid all the time is really annoying. I know I probably do stuff that you --”

“You’re not just a dumb --” says Jimmy.

“Just -- look.” Joey takes a deep breath. “I know I probably do stuff that you don’t always like, right? But we try to get along because we’re D-partners. So next time I do something that isn’t cool, just tell me it’s not cool and I’ll stop. Don’t just put up with it because you think you have to because we’re a D-pair. Or -- or whatever your reason is, don’t just go along with my rookie bullshit. My ‘kid stuff.’” He makes air quotes. “If you don’t -- if there’s -- I don’t want us to fuck up again like we did last night because we’re upset.”

“Merde.” Jimmy puts his face into one hand and stands there for a minute. Two minutes. It might as well be ten, it’s such a long time. Joey feels so awkward. He feels like he said all the wrong things. “Joe, there’s always -- people always get upset. We need to learn to skate around our feelings. It just takes practice. Last night, that wasn’t entirely our fault. We’re a young team. It takes time.”

“I _know that_ but we need to be pulling our weight and we were not last night. Because something is fucked up between the two of us.”

“I just needed to think. Nothing is fucked up between us.”

“Something _feels_ fucked up.”

“I promise, nothing is fucked up.”

“I don’t think you can just promise that.” Joey looks down at his socks. “I need to go down to breakfast.”

“Joey . . .”

“I’m giving you space.” Joey slides out of the room without touching Jimmy. He’s not hungry anymore -- his stomach is in knots and his hands are numb -- but he needs to eat.

*

Joey doesn’t hear the break or anything that dramatic, but he’s pretty sure it’s broken. At least it’s toward the end of the game so he doesn’t have to worry about how many minutes he’s missing. Fucking Minnesota.

*

Joey’s wrist aches so bad. It’s swollen, so it hurts all up his arm, into his elbow. His funny bone hurts. His fingers hurt. But he doesn’t want the painkillers, no, just some Advil.

“Joey.” Jimmy is there. Jimmy rode in the ambulance with him. “Take the painkillers.”

“What if I get addicted? I don’t want it. I don’t want to get used to them. I don’t want that kind of career.”

Jimmy leans over and puts a hand on his thigh and says, “Take them. I’ve got your back.”

“I don’t wanna be one of those guys, Jims.” Joey bites his lip, feeling pitiful and stupid. “I don’t wanna be like --”

“Joey. I’ll keep track of what they give you. I won’t let them give you too much. Okay?”

It’s so stupid but once they give him the injection and his wrist feels far away, Joey can’t stop staring at Jimmy. They are so good on D together. They can’t read each other’s minds or anything, but Joey knows they’re gonna get there if the ‘Diques don’t split them up. They’ll be fucking legendary.

“We’re gonna be legendary, Jimmy,” he slurs. Jimmy stops holding his thigh and for a second Joey panics – did he say something totally – can Jimmy _tell_ he likes him _too much_? – and then Jimmy takes his hand.

“Fuckin’ right we are,” Jimmy says quietly, and squeezes his good hand until they take him away for x-rays.

When he comes back, Chants is there, and Jimmy’s in the other chair, farther away. Joey stares at them both pathetically while they put his wrist into a splint, and then into a sling. It takes forever. Jimmy has the best eyes.

They let Jimmy push the wheelchair out to the Uber Chants ordered. Joey is too tall for it, his knees are up to his chin. Chants sits in the front, and Joey and Jimmy try to fit themselves into the back.

“I’m starving,” mumbles Joey. “It’s starting to hurt again but I’m so hungry.”

“We’ll get you food.” Jimmy puts a hand on his thigh again. Joey tries to hold his hand, but his hand is all tied up in the sling, so he can’t. It’s so frustrating.

“I’ve already called ahead to the hotel,” says Chants. “Room service for all three of us. Our flight to Ottawa is _early_ , so eat and sleep and then get on the plane. _Nothing else tonight._ Got it?”

“No more painkillers?” asks Joey sadly.

“You can have painkillers.”

“You’re so intense,” Joey tells him. He tries to reach out to Chants but his hand is still in the sling.

*

Joey wakes up with a clearer head and a lot more pain. His wrist is elevated on two pillows above his head, and throbs with his heartbeat. There’s a bunch of used up, warm one-use ice packs around. He needs a cold one. And --

“Advil,” he groans.

“You’re awake?” Jimmy’s pulling on a shirt.

“Should I not be?”

“I was going to let you sleep until after breakfast, not wake you up until we had to be on the plane.”

“My wrist hurts.” Joey uses his abs to sit up, and clutches his wrist to his chest.

Jimmy pulls out a bottle and shakes out one pill. “Here. You have to take this with food, though, so let’s get you dressed and down to breakfast.”

“I’ll go down like this.” He looks down at himself, sweatpants and a T-shirt he has no recollection of. “Did you do this?”

“Yeah, I helped you.” Jimmy hands him a small bottle of water and looks away. “What’s a D-partner for, kid?”

“Puck possession,” says Joey solemnly. He grins at Jimmy, but Jimmy still isn’t looking at him. “Let’s see if I can piss with my left hand.”

“You managed it last night.”

“You didn’t help me with that too? I want a new D-partner.” Joey pats Jimmy’s shoulder on his way to the bathroom, where he learns that actually, pissing one-handed with his left hand is fucking _difficult_ and if things weren’t weird with Jimmy _still_ maybe he would ask for help. But he struggles through it by himself and only gets a little piss on the seat and -- well -- it sucks but he makes it. Just like the fucking combine. This sucks but you’ll get through it is exactly how he made it through the combine.

Jimmy doesn’t even let their shoulders touch in the tiny elevator, but he does fill Joey’s plate for him at the buffet. So there are apparently rules now that Joey’s going to need to learn.

Shitty rules.

*

By the time they’ve made it to Boston, the swelling has gone down enough that they can finally put on a cast. The team doctor goes with Joey to an orthopedist’s office and it hurts enough that Joey takes the offered painkiller shot and a second prescription for more painkillers. He’ll give it to Jimmy to hold with the others and dispense carefully.

But the tension with Jimmy is so bad that Joey is considering locking himself in the bathroom for one of his weekly calls with his mom to ask her what to do, but he knows her answer will be “talk about it” and Joey tried that! He tried so hard to do that, and failed miserably, plus Jimmy wasn’t doing his half of the work on that one.

Joey sticks with the team when he can, instead of being cranky and alone -- instead of giving himself time to think about Jimmy.

“I’m never gonna be able to jerk off again,” he whines to Pendowski while they do sit ups. He’s got his arm in the sling and it hurts pretty bad, but he’s not going to get out of shape and the trainer cleared him. If he takes a couple Tylenol before he works out, it’s not too bad.

“Doing it with your left hand is like a whole new feeling, though, dude.” Pendowski’s panting. Joey should point that out to Chants, but he’s not that big of an asshole.

“No, I’m _really_ right handed.” Joey sighs. “You ever miss juniors or whatever? I mean, in the US we have NTDP --”

“I’m American, dumbass,” says Pendowski. “I’m _from_ Boston.”

“Whatever, you’re a dumbass. Okay, so you _know_. You ever miss it? I wouldn’t be fucked like this if I were still in the system.” Joey sits up and twists to crack his back and his neck.

“You’re gonna get arthritis,” says Pendowski, and then he does the same thing. He huffs a few breaths. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I kind of miss it, too, miss my guys. It’s so fucking easy to pick up in Q-City, right, but those girls only want us ‘cause we’re ‘Diques. It’s not the same.”

“Right? It’s kind of gross, right?”

“Yeah.” Pendowski shrugs. “But the guys here . . . it’s not the same.”

“Yeah.” Joey tries to push himself off the bench with his right hand and winces. “Shit. Anyway, not that I’m complaining about the show, right. It’s just different.”

“No, I get you. It’s wicked different.” Pendowski nods. “I’m gonna lift. You should go take more Advil or whatever, man, your fingers are swelling.”

“Shit. Okay, thanks.” Joey swings his leg over the bench and stands up and bumps right into Jimmy. “Sorry, man.”

“What are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be resting your wrist.” Jimmy’s face is a thundercloud of eyebrows and a turned-down mouth.

“The ortho said a light workout would be fine as long as I wasn’t using my wrist. I was just -- come on, Jimmy, let go --” Jimmy hauls him out of the room and toward a trainer.

“Your fingers are swollen,” Jimmy says. “No more working out. Sit with a trainer.”

“I was _going_ ,” says Joey frustratedly.

“You and Pendowski were making plans to go out tonight after the game?” asks Jimmy, pushing Joey into a chair.

“What? No. We were talking about missing our buddies from when we were kids. You know.” Joey regrets it as soon as he makes the jack-off motion with his right hand. Not just because Jimmy’s face does a twisty thing, but also because it hurts. “Fuck, I need a painkiller.”

“I have them in my bag. Just sit here and stop moving around and -- just sit here.” Jimmy disappears, and Joey feels like an idiot. He already knew Jimmy didn’t like to talk about sex, was kind of weird about Joey being . . . like, Joey not caring enough to “no homo” stuff.

But Jimmy never seems to care about Chants being married to Jackson. But Chants is the captain. Maybe that makes it different.

Maybe Joey shouldn’t have relaxed about the rookie shit so much.

Shit, his wrist hurts.

*

Jimmy helps him get into his suit for the Bruins game, and he sits in the press box. The Bruins completely stomp them, the score is 7-1, and the Bruins get 46 shots on goal. So actually, Joey tells himself, it’s a fucking miracle Ten kept them to seven goals. It’s raining and freezing outside, just absolutely fucking gross, so instead of going out after, people split into groups and head for rooms. There’s some kind of collective effort to get Chants laid, though, so they send him off in an Uber, and Giroux and Richie disappear with Holly, probably to talk shit about Chants in the hotel bar like old men. 

“I want a pain pill and a giant steak,” says Joey, “and I didn’t even play tonight.” He walks down the hall next to Jimmy, in front of Pendowski and Jordie. 

“We’re supposed to be practicing our French,” says Jordie. “Can you say any of that in French?”

“Voglio una pain pill e una bistecca,” says Joey. “Uh, scopare French -- francese.”

Pendowski and Jordie crack up.

“Je veux une pilule de douleur et un steak,” says Jimmy mildly, stopping in front of their room and pulling out his key card. “But it might be different in Quebecois. There are some words, you say them in France and it’s a completely different language and the French won’t understand you at all. I think the Quebecois deliberately ignore when I speak French, too.”

“Fucking Frenchie politics.” Jordie throws himself down Jimmy’s bed. “At least they’ve given up on interviewing us in French.”

Jimmy snorts, and reaches for the room service menu. “At least put up a good showing of learning French or you’re going to be traded, Evangelista.”

“You think so?”

“Frenchie politics.”

Joey sags into one of the arm chairs and stays there, half-listening to Pendowski and Jordie bicker with each other and Jimmy. Jimmy places the room service order, and Joey notices he does get the steak and two sweet potatoes and two sides of steamed spinach for Joey without even asking. Then he brings Joey half a vicodin, two Advils, and a bottle of Gatorade, and tugs his hair a little before moving away again.

Joey wants to cry a little bit, but bites it back. He’s just tired and in pain. He’s just dumb. He just needs to take the pills and eat some food.

He just needs Jimmy’s hand back in his hair.

*

Pendowski and Jordie are the perfect dudes to hang out with because they never let a moment go by unfilled. They talk through everything, including any moment that could possibly be quiet, the minutes that they spend in the bathroom, and the entire _Fast Fury_ movie they watch while emptying the minibar. Jimmy only lets Joey have one tiny bottle of vodka, but it’s enough, Joey hates to admit, on top of the painkillers and the pain.

He stretches out on a bed next to Jimmy, careful not to let them touch -- not easy when they’re both long and big. Their shoulders brush sometimes, and Joey feels bad about that because Jimmy doesn’t want that, but it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose. 

Joey drifts off toward the end of the movie. Everyone’s fast, everyone’s furious, he gets it. He’s seen all 14 other movies in the franchise, who hasn’t? He wakes up when the door shuts, startled, his head jerking up off Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says automatically.

“It’s okay,” says Jimmy. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” Joey rolls away and stands up, feeling staggered. “I should have changed out of my suit. Shit.”

“Do you want help?”

“I’m gonna need it, with that stupid inside button and these cuffs. Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry. It’s fine. I’m happy to help. It’s really -- it’s fine.” Jimmy sighs, though, a big sigh, like it’s probably not fine. But he gets Joey’s shirt unbuttoned, cuffs too, and then his pants undone. When the backs of his fingers brush against Joey’s dick, even though it’s impersonal and quick, Joey starts to chub up.

Because Joey’s dick is stupid and doesn’t have a brain that thinks about these things.

“Thanks,” says Joey hurriedly, and goes into the bathroom to finish changing into sweatpants and try to piss.

When he comes out, Jimmy is sitting on the bed, legs spread, in just his black briefs. He and Joey are built similarly -- broad shoulders, thick through the chest, layers of muscle. Jimmy’s older, settled into his frame a little more, and somehow . . . Joey thinks of himself as a pretty good looking dude who takes care of his body, but Jimmy is a _good looking dude_. Jimmy doesn’t just look like a guy who takes care of himself, he pushes it to the limit and then _uses it_ , and then he gets on the ice and nobody fucks around with him, and _that’s so hot_.

Joey knows feeling like that about another dude _is not normal_ , no matter how many bros his captain marries. It’s not okay in the NHL to not hook up with chicks and just want to touch your D-partner’s skin every day. Even Chants hooks up with chicks all the time.

When Jimmy looks up and catches Joey staring at him, Joey blushes hot. 

“What you said this morning,” Jimmy says. “Your buddies. From juniors.”

“Yeah,” says Joey warily.

“I could help you.” Jimmy takes a deep breath. “Like that. Like buddies.”

“You ever do that when you were a rookie?” Joey asks, then bites his lip. Jimmy just stares at him steadily.

“Come here,” Jimmy finally says. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”

Joey’s dick isn’t hard but it will _get hard_ for this. He hasn’t gotten laid since he got to Q-City. He wasn’t joking around with Pendowski -- a chick who wants to lay him just because he’s a ‘Dique is not his idea of a good time, and he doesn’t have any French. The English-speaking bars near the arena are all sports bars. They all know him there. And when they’re on a roadie, it’s all about bonding, not about picking up. 

And he’s not thinking about picking up when he’s near Jimmy.

His dick won’t just get hard because he hasn’t gotten laid. He’s gotta be honest with himself. It’ll get hard because this is Jimmy, and he’s _wanted this_.

“Do you not want it?” Jimmy asks quietly, and starts to sit up straighter. 

“No,” says Joey. “I mean -- yes. Yes. I want it. Please.”

“Come here,” Jimmy says again, and Joey goes to him.

*

Joey wakes up in the middle of the night because his hand hurts, and realizes when Jimmy came back from the bathroom after jerking Joey off, he climbed back into Joey’s bed. And he arranged them so that Joey’s on his back with his wrist elevated like he’s supposed to be, while Jimmy is curled around him, his hair out of its elastic and everywhere. 

Joey wishes he hadn’t fallen asleep. He wants to -- to -- to have jerked Jimmy off. Except he can’t, that’s the whole problem. But he could suck Jimmy off. He’s only done it twice before, and it’s never been super great, but a lot of guys have done it for him, and they seem to have liked it. And girls do it. There’s nothing _wrong_ with doing it, if there’s nothing wrong with _getting it_. There wouldn’t be anything wrong with doing it for Jimmy. Joey can practically feel Jimmy’s thick thighs under his hands, the curly black hair scraping against his palms, the muscles moving. 

Jimmy’s got a thick bulge in his underwear that’s kind of intimidating, but Joey’s seen him in the locker room. It shouldn’t be a big deal to fit that in his mouth. Joey opens his mouth -- he can probably do it. He wants to try. 

He falls asleep visualizing. He’s pretty sure this is not why NTDP taught him visualization, but he’s going to use whatever works.

*

In the morning, Jimmy’s awake before him, and everything is . . . normal. Like last night never happened. 

Joey doesn’t know how to fix it, so he just takes his pain pill and lets Jimmy help him get dressed and sits next to Latte on the plane to Columbus.

*

It happens again after the Columbus game. They pull out the win, and then Jimmy pulls Joey off, curled together on the bed, facing each other like finger quotes, Joey only breathing in air that Jimmy’s breathed out first. It’s the hottest thing to ever happen to Joey. 

“Go to sleep now, kid,” says Jimmy, his hand full of Joey’s come.

“I think you can quit calling me kid.” Joey stretches lazily on the bed, totally naked. His feet hang off, but they always do. “Come back here after you wash your hands so I can suck your dick.”

“So -- what?” Jimmy pops his head out of the bathroom. “What?”

“Come back here. Let me getcha back.”

“Kid -- Joey.”

“You thought this only went one way? Who were _you_ fucking around with your rookie year?” Joey makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, the same one his mom makes when Joey gets in a fight. _Wait, no, do not think about Mom right now._

“I’m fine.”

“What if I _want to_?”

“You want to suck another guy’s cock?”

“Do you want to beat me up or something for it?” Joey lifts his chin. He’s naked and has jizz on him, but Jimmy just jerked him off. Neither of them are really in a position to be fighting about what’s gayer here.

“N-no. If you want to.” Jimmy leans against the door jamb and touches his cock, just rearranging it a little, but Joey’s mouth starts watering. It’s so weird. He wonders if this is how girls feel. Or gay dudes. “If you want to, we can.”

Chin up higher. “I said I wanted to, didn’t I?”

“And I said we can.”

“So come over here.” Joey gets up on his knees at the edge of the bed and meets Jimmy there. He tilts his face up. He kind of wants . . . to kiss him? Like . . . it would be nice? But Jimmy is so skittish, it’s never gonna work. So he just holds his right wrist to his chest and uses his left hand to snap the band of Jimmy’s briefs. “Take ‘em off, let’s get this show on the road.”

“Have you ever done this before?” Jimmy asks, skimming his briefs down his legs.

Joey’s eyes are on his dick. It’s thick like his thighs and arms, and uncut, and wet at the tip. Joey wants his mouth on it, just like in his visualizations. 

“How many handjobs you give to buddies?” Joey looks up and meets his eyes. Jimmy looks away. “Yeah, thought so. You wanna sit or stand.”

“I’ll stand.”

Joey sits on his ass to get a little lower, wraps his left hand around most of the shaft of Jimmy’s dick (Jimmy’s! Dick!), and goes by what he visualized: he licks the head first, using his hand to pull back the foreskin a little. He’s given handies to dudes with foreskins, he knows they’re super sensitive, and he has to be careful, but he bets it feels good to get a tongue in there, get it wet. 

He suddenly remembers Chants telling him before pre-season to just try to be a beauty, and he wants to laugh. Because it definitely applies here. Just try to be a beauty: give a good suckjob to your D-partner. 

By the time he’s got saliva dripping down to his fist, he’s ready to take more, and Jimmy’s thighs are shaking. He’s _got this_. Man, short, fat dicks are where it’s at. He can just open his mouth and suck on the head and it feels good, like it fits right behind his teeth, like his mouth was made to do this specifically for Jimmy. 

He sucks slowly and gets the whole thing into his mouth, feels the head hit the back of his throat, and just as he’s about to gag, he thinks, Jimmy’s hips jerk, and he comes, saying, “Merde, merde, merde.”

Joey doesn’t even have to make the choice to swallow, everything’s already in his throat. Super easy. If there were a cocksucking Calder, he’d win it, no problem.

He kisses the tip of Jimmy’s dick when he pulls off.

“Thanks, bro,” he says, trying to be cool. He looks up at Jimmy. “Beauty, right?”

“Yes,” Jimmy says, his voice hoarse. “Beauty.”

*

Joey is a for-real cocksucker now. He did it on purpose, sober, because he wanted to. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror but nothing’s really changed. He’s still just himself. He kind of feels like an asshole, though. Like, there are some dicks he probably should have sucked back in college. Guys who sucked his dick, and then Joey just jerked them off.

Non-beauty.

That was before Joey adopted the philosophy to be a beauty, but that doesn’t excuse it. He should have known better.

He can’t believe Jimmy let him suck his dick. He wants to do it again. All the time. He wants to do it while Jimmy touches his hair. Or touches that spot on his ribs. Or . . . says something to him. _Not_ kiddo. But anything else. Maybe they could figure something out even after Joey’s wrist is out of the cast.

As long as it doesn’t fuck with their chemistry the way sleeping in the same bed did. They can’t lose games just because Joey wants to touch Jimmy’s dick. 

*

Joey keeps the sling on at home. It’s so much easier to remember not to use his hand when he _can’t_ use it -- and his fingers stop swelling when his arm is bent and his hand is up by his heart. The trainers approve of it, too. He wants to heal as fast as possible, so . . . everything is better this way. And the cast fucking _itches_ , so keeping it in the sling is the best way to keep his left hand away from it.

He thinks about the cast. He thinks about his mom, and how she’s so angry at him for not calling -- she had to see it on NHL.com, he didn’t even send a text. Now he’s learning to text with his left hand, but it’s hard, so he’s mostly falling out of touch with people right now. Or liking things on Facebook instead of leaving comments. He likes a bunch of stuff on Insta and painstakingly picks obnoxious emoji for his favorites -- Filip and some of the guys from Vail never fail to post the best shit to their private Instas.

He decidedly does not think about Jimmy’s hand on his dick, or Jimmy’s mouth near his, hot air blowing over his lips, Jimmy saying, “It’s okay, I’ll take care of you,” how much Joey wanted -- wants -- to be taken care of by Jimmy’s big hand again.

It takes a knock on the door for him to realize he’s sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, flexing the fingers of his left hand, his mouth slightly open. He feels so stupid.

He gets up and it’s Chants.

“Cap,” he says. “Hey, hi. Come in. Hi.”

Chants goes straight for the kitchen and starts looking around. “You eating right?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I got the grocery service, and Yurisbel gave me a new diet until I’m a hundred percent again. A whole new set of recipes. Jimmy -- uh. Jimmy’s been helping me cook.” Joey feels his face turn hot.

“How’s the arm?”

“ ‘s good! The cast itches like fuck, but . . .”

Chants sticks his hands in his pockets and Joey feels _examined_.

“You getting around okay, the boys helping you out?”

“Yeah, Cap, they’ve all been great. And Jimmy’s been . . . he’s really been helping me . . .” Joey can hear himself talking and wishes he would shut the fuck up. Chants doesn’t need to know this. Joey doesn’t need to be saying this. None of this needs to be happening. Oh god.

Chants changes the subject to hockey and Joey could not be more grateful. They run through what the trainers are saying about recovery time, training, how Joey can be on the ice in a no-contact starting this week. Joey assures Chants that no one is leaving him alone -- which he’s so, so, so grateful for. This team is a _team_ somehow, already, even though they’ve only been together for a few months, and they all really care about each other.

 _Some more than others,_ he thinks to himself, and blushes again.

“Tell Jimmy I said hi,” Chants says, and Joey wants to die, because it’s clear that the captain knows what’s going on. Probably better than Joey does, because Joey has no idea what the fuck is happening. “He’s a good kid too. The important thing . . . the important thing is just to be good people to each other, you know?”

“What?” Jimmy is like five years older than Chants, too, but also: what?

“You’re friends first, no matter what else is going on. You have to remember that. As long as you guys make sure you treat each other with, like, best intentions -- be good to each other and shit, you won’t fuck up your hockey chemistry. I mean, you guys might work out, or you might not, but you’ll still need to be friends at the end either way, still be good on the ice. So just be good people to each other.”

Joey can feel how hot his face is, and where his fingertips are touching his chest feels hot too. He must be bright red. What is Chants _even saying_.

“It’s not. We’re not. I mean, we’re -- I mean it’s just -- I mean --” Chants is making the weirdest, most skeptical face at him. “I mean I had a girlfriend. Last year. Before I came here.”

“Okay. Good for you, bro.”

“And Jimmy’s -- I mean, Jimmy’s not --” Jimmy doesn’t _like me like that_ , he wants to say, but that’s too much to give to the captain. “We’re just . . . I mean, I don’t know what we’re doing, but he likes girls, so . . . we’re not. I mean it’s just rookie --”

Chants interrupts him, his face hard and a little angry. “Before you finish that sentence, think about whether it’s something you want to say to your bisexual team captain.”

_Bisexual!_

What the fuck.

That’s like half and half, right?

Men can _do that?_

Shit. Joey has so many questions. But Chants looks -- still looks angry, or annoyed, or skeptical, or something not great, like Joey is a trial. Kind of the way Jimmy looks sometimes when he calls Joey kid.

Finally he just says, “No, I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t . . . it’s not . . . I mean . . .”

Chants’s face relaxes. “You can like both,” he says kindly. “He can too. It’s a thing. It doesn’t matter what percentage you like of either, it still counts. It’s not a phase or rookie shit, or kid stuff, or whatever bullshit people say, okay? I don’t care whether you’re just fucking around with him and having a good time, or whether he’s your long lost love, or whether you guys are just taking it slow and seeing where it winds up. It’s not my business. I’m just saying. If you like doing it with him, it counts. And it’s okay, this . . . obviously this is a team where it’s okay.”

Joey bites his lip. “I don’t know what he thinks . . . I mean I think he thinks it’s just . . .” Helping a buddy out.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

Joey groans. Oh god. No. Trying to get Jimmy to talk about shit is the worst ever. He bends over and rubs his face on his knee. “ _No_ ,” he says into his sweatpants.

“Yeah,” says Chants. “Well, dude, lots of people suck at talking about shit with the people they’re fucking. But if there’s one person on this planet you need to be able to talk to, it’s your D-partner, whether your dicks are touching sometimes or not.”

Joey stands up when Chants stands. “I mean, I know. I know, fuck.”

Chants slaps him on the shoulder and even though it’s his good shoulder, it makes his wrist hurt. He bites back a wince.

“He’s your best friend and your D-partner, and he obviously wants good things for you, because he’s taking good care of you. Just talk to him about it. Nothing terrible is going to happen. If he’s confused or something, I can talk to him too.”

That would be the worst thing ever. To have the captain pass his D-partner a note: Do you want to touch my dick _for real_ , check yes or no.

Joey smiles at Chants though. “Okay. I’ll talk to him, uh, tonight, I guess.”

“Chill, kid, you’re not asking him to marry you. You’re just figuring out what the play is.”

Only fucking Chants. Joey hurries him out the door. It _is_ like a marriage. It might as well be marriage. To decide to be -- to decide to be _bisexual_ and do it _together_ and then be on the ice together too, and be a D-pairing? It’s not like forwards, who get shifted around all the time. This is committing to spending a life together, unless the ‘Diques trade one of them unexpectedly. Only Chants would think this wouldn’t fuck with chemistry, because he has perfect chemistry with everyone. A fucking charmed life.

Joey knows he needs to calm down. It’s not fair to be mad at Chants because he’s upset at other shit. He knows that. And the list of shit he’s upset about is long and -- oh. His wrist hurts, too. A lot.

He texts Jimmy: Get here soon my wrist hurts and I want a real painkiller not just advil n shit

Then he texts him again: Thats not just a metaphor for me sucking ur dick either man I need a vicodin

Then he throws his phone across the room because Jimmy is going to be so pissed off at him for mentioning sex and they are _never_ going to talk about _anything_ if Joey keeps acting like a dumb kid and mentioning sex, even if they are kind of _having it._

Chants doesn’t know anything.

*

Jimmy lets himself in while Joey is sprawled across the couch in the dark. Joey’s played out every way this conversation could go, and they all go like this:

Joey: I like you in a bisexual way, the way Chants likes his husband. Don’t freak out.  
Jimmy: That’s fucking disgusting and gay, what the fuck is wrong with you? Touch your own dick from now on.

Is there another way this conversation could go?

Joey: I want to touch your dick more, and kiss you on the mouth.  
Jimmy: That’s really gay.

Joey can’t find his way to a positive visualization of the scenario at all. Not with the way Jimmy is so fucking skittish about everything to do with sex and touching. 

“Hi,” says Jimmy. “You’re sitting in the dark.” He puts the pizza down on the coffee table in the living room. “Should I turn on some lights?”

“I would rather be in the dark today.” Joey presses his left hand against his left eye hard.

“It hurts pretty bad?” Jimmy goes into the kitchen and Joey can hear the pills rattling. “I’m coming. Don’t worry. You didn’t take anything at all today except Advil so you get the pleasure of a whole entire vicodin tonight. But no wine.”

“I don’t have any wine.”

“I brought wine, because you’re a heathen who doesn’t keep it in your house. But we’ll drink it another night.”

And then there’s a pill and a Gatorade. The white cherry kind of Gatorade, which Jimmy must have also stopped for, because Joey remembers complaining in the group chat that he was out because Holly stopped by and drank his.

“Chants came by today,” Joey says after a long sip of the Gatorade. “This is so good, by the way. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Did he call you bro?”

“I think he did at least once. Is the bet still going?”

“I’m not sure. G is really annoyed about it, but fake-annoyed, so Rosie and Holly are in charge of it, but I haven’t heard about it in a while.”

“I should have kept better track. But i would have noticed if he called me bro more than once. And he definitely didn’t call me bro in French. I would have noticed that.”

“Mon gar,” says Jimmy, grinning.

“There’s another one, but he only calls Jackson it. I’ve heard them on the phone once.” Joey wipes his mouth off. The Gatorade is making him feel even more thirsty, or maybe it’s the idea of having to talk to Jimmy. But he kind of promised Chants he would, or Chants said _he_ would talk to Jimmy, which, no, please, no.

“Mon chum. That’s when a guy is your dude and your boyfriend. It was practically invented with Jackson and Chants in mind.”

Joey looks up at Jimmy. Jimmy’s face in the dark is so . . . handsome. His eyes are dark and shiny; his hair is pulled back into an elastic so you can’t tell how curly it really is, and it makes his whole face look like angles. 

“Mon chum,” says Joey slowly, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “That could be like us, too.”

Jimmy is silent from the other side of the couch.

“I . . . would like that. If I could call you that. Mon chum D-partner.” Joey feels a little desperate now. 

“I don’t think you really get what I’m saying. Chants and Jackson are married. Boyfriends. Gay.”

“Chants is bisexual,” says Joey, he hopes not defensively. “Bisexual means you like both. Guys can do that too, it’s not just for chicks. Chants says you don’t have to like them in equal halves, you can like one more than the other, and it’s fine, you can just like one guy, or a lot of guys, so it’s okay if you just like me and don’t like any other guys. I know you get freaked out talking about this stuff, I’m not trying to scare you off, but I want you to know how I feel. I promised Chants I’d talk to you about it so there’s nothing between us to screw up our D-chemistry, and -- you know, and, like, we -- like -- we have to be beauties for each other. We want the best for each other, right?”

“Um.” Jimmy blinks a couple of times. “Right. I think . . . yes.”

“So do you . . . want to be my mon chum?”

“You are so bad at French. Stop speaking it,” says Jimmy. He reaches out and puts a hand on Joey’s ankle. “You’re gay? I mean -- uh -- bisexual?”

“Yeah, I guess? Chants says dudes can do that. I didn’t know. I thought it was just . . . rookie bullshit, you know? You keep calling me a kid, I don’t know, I thought it was just kid stuff. But if Chants says it’s okay, I guess it’s okay, he seems to know what he’s talking about.” Joey shakes his head. “He knows, like, everything somehow.”

“Not everything, but . . .” Jimmy takes a deep breath. “I’m gay, Joey.”

“You’re -- but you never want to _touch me.”_

“I _always_ want to touch you. I never want you to . . . freak out.”

Joey scrambles onto his knees and then throws himself at Jimmy. “I want to kiss you so bad.” He’s almost there, but then he holds back. “Telling me you’re gay was -- that’s, like, you telling me it’s okay to kiss you, right? I want to kiss you so bad.”

“Yes, kiss me,” says Jimmy and he keeps his eyes open -- Joey does too -- for their first kiss. Their noses bump and it’s kind of a shitty kiss, but Joey loves it, his mouth on Jimmy’s mouth, his body in Jimmy’s lap, his skin touching Jimmy’s skin.

“I can’t believe this worked,” he mutters, “holy shit.”

“ _You_ can’t believe this worked.” Jimmy drops his head onto Joey’s good shoulder, sliding his hands under Joey’s T-shirt, making Joey shiver. “You’ve been killing me since day one.”

“Day one?”

“You think I stay up until dawn texting with anyone?”

“You stayed up until _dawn_ texting with me that day?” Joey pulls back.

“Do you know _anything_ about time zones?” asks Jimmy, but he’s smiling, and he pulls Joey in to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to [Superstition_hockey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey) \-- for letting me fool around in this universe, for being an amazing cheerleader on IM, for answering all my questions about bits of canon that haven’t been posted yet, and, for real, for writing the _Superstition_ series in the first place. And thanks also to my beta, [ainsley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ainsley/pseuds/ainsley), who was so encouraging on twitter when I would have sworn on everything sacred to me that there was no one left in the world who wanted to read anything I had left to write. And thanks to everyone who just read this! Mes gars, now let’s all do shots off Luc’s abs.
> 
> I'm [dngrcpckwithmurdericing](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dngrcpckwithmurdericing) on tumblr and [@murdericing](https://twitter.com/murdericing) on Twitter if y'all wanna talk about how much you love _Superstition_ ever.


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